


Eye of the Storm

by CapGirlCanuck



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, BROTHERS2INFINITY, Brotherly Love, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Touch is Bucky's Love Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24466180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: When he feels like he's caught in a hurricane, Bucky's surest anchor is Steve. They are safe with each other.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> So, apparently I deal with not being able to get/give hugs from/to my best friends, by giving Steve and Bucky the hugs.  
> I left the timing vague, but I personally place this between the last chapter and epilogue of _This Is Me_.  
> Also: Brief mentions of self-harm and violence. This is Bucky. :'3  
> Btw, the song I quote at the beginning did not inspire my title; my title made me think of the song, and the chorus at least, fit too perfectly.  
> The song I mention Steve singing is 'Right Here' by Ashes Remain.

_In the eye of the storm  
You remain in control  
And in the middle of the war  
You guard my soul  
You alone are the anchor  
When my sails are torn  
Your love surrounds me  
In the eye of the storm_

_-‘Eye of the Storm’ by Ryan Stevenson_

Sometimes Bucky couldn’t get his mind to be quiet, to slow down, to take things one at a time. It had been the worst right after the Winter Soldier had broken, and _he was Bucky, who the hell was Bucky?_ Memories, emotions, plans, all swirling together with his surroundings, all of it coming to the point of overwhelming him; chaos in his head. And there was no escaping his head.

He remembered banging his skull against whatever hard surface was handy, and sometimes the pain would shock the voices into silence. Sometimes something in his surroundings would shift—the way a person moved, a change in the weather, a glance that lingered too long—and the Soldier’s conditioning would kick in, snapping him out of it. And the other times (those were the ones he hated most, feared most) when he could do nothing about it, when he was powerless, only able to hunker down—in a sewer, in an alley, in a ship’s cargo hold, in his bed—and close his eyes, and wait. Wait until the storm died down. Or until he exploded.

He didn’t want to explode; he knew he would be terrifying.

That was why he started writing. That was why, once he had started, he couldn’t stop. He filled the first notebook in two weeks. He filled four in the next week. When he put the thoughts down, they were out there in front of him, under his eye, where he could control them. Instead of them controlling him.

He even wrote down the Words. Those Words, the ones _they_ … He had spread them out over two journals, sprinkled across a month’s worth of writing, and all out of order. But he would never forget the way Dr. Dal had looked at him, when he spoke about it. _Warm pride, with just a bit of delighted surprise. The way he suddenly remembered his dad_ _–_

Bucky still wrote in his journals. Not as much now, he was so busy taking care of livestock and children, and learning new customs and how to take care of his land, and being a science nerd with Shuri, and taking care of himself… And Steve.

He had Steve.

Steve came and went from Wakanda; gone for a month or so working with Sam and Nat on missions that ranged from covert mob take-downs, to good-will relief efforts, and then sometimes he’d text and other times he’d just fly in and leave his Quinjet by the woods and show up by Bucky’s cooking fire.

Steve made a difference that Bucky didn’t deserve.

No, it wasn’t magic. The bad days didn’t vanish, never to be seen again. There were days of darkness, weeks of pain; the swirl of memories and voices in his head, driving him toward some edge he could not see, only feel. The war in his head still raged.

But when Steve was there, he wasn’t alone.

Especially when the grief and the fear (the _Winter Soldier? Afraid?)_ became too much and the only outlet was rage or tears or both, when Steve was there to put both his strong, warm arms around Bucky and hold him close—hold him against his strong, warm body, and his chest where his heart beat steady and fierce—when Bucky could feel the undeniable _reality_ of the gentle flesh-and-blood that circled him… especially then it helped. _He_ helped.

His gentle hands brushing tears from Bucky’s cheeks, his careful fingers running through Bucky’s hair, his strong thumbs rubbing raw tension out of Bucky’s neck and shoulders. Touch, undeniably real, tethering Bucky to the present, the moment in time in which he breathed.

And his voice. Even Steve’s whispers were stronger than the shouts, the screams, the howls that sounded through his memories. _The crack of a whip, the sizzle of burning flesh, the wail of a child…_ and Steve’s breath would be warm on his ear, murmuring only words of hope and love and assurance, memories of shared laughter and tears. And Bucky would listen, would let that voice wrap around his heart, steadying him, an anchor that did not always take him out of the storm at once, but at the very least made him able to bear it. Made him able to breathe.

There had been shame over it all, most in the early days of re-establishing their friendship, in the early days on Wakandan soil. Shame for his brokenness, for the blood that stained his hands (hand), for the way he wanted so badly to take the comfort Steve offered, when he had none to give in return. But Steve had never guilted Bucky, no, that was the twisted voices in his head, the ones with ugly faces _(“You do not_ want. _The Asset cannot_ want.” _Pain, grinding through his shoulder.)_

Even when Bucky lashed out, when Bucky (the man Steve called his friend, his _brother,_ the one he said he loved) tried to push him away, tried to hurt him so he wouldn’t get hurt worse, even then Steve had not left. Instead he taught himself, by trial and error sometimes, when he needed to stand still and wait for Bucky to turn around, when he needed to reach out a quiet hand, and when he needed to step in and grab Bucky and not let go until they had both fallen apart and could stumble toward the light of day together.

He knew it one morning when he woke in the warm circle of Steve’s arms, and he breathed only love and hope and the smell of Steve’s shirt. He knew it again, when they stood in the kitchen of his Wakandan apartment—him in the same clothes he’d worn for half a week without showering and Steve in his dirty, sweaty uniform—and clung to each other and wept. And he knew it sitting in the warm sunshine, with Steve’s arm around his shoulders, eating zebra jerky and watching the sheep and goats graze, and listening to Steve sing softly: “I’ll be right here now, to hold you when the sky falls down. I will always be the one that took your place…”

He knew he was loved. And when he concentrated on that love, it drove out the shame, the fear, the voices that tore him down.

No matter how fiercely or loudly the battles in his mind might rage, he had found a safe place in his brother’s love. Steve’s love.

It was his lighthouse, his harbour, his shield, and every action, every word, every touch from Steve, made it stronger, made it thicker and more durable. Made _Bucky_ stronger and more durable. Until Bucky could feel it like a guardian over his heart and mind, even when Steve himself was physically absent. The demons still came howling around, but he had an angel watching his back now.

He knew he was loved, and in that love, he could find peace. Even in the middle of the storms.

***

When he woke, every one of the thoughts that that had been swirling around in his head before he fell asleep, was right there waiting for him. He could almost see the little creatures jumping on him, chattering at the tops of their voices as they dug their claws in.

He closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. Tried to concentrate on the noises of the world around him: a rooster crowing, birds beginning to sing, Steve pouring himself a glass of water in the front room of the hut.

Some days it was the busyness that was overwhelming. Not that the people were ever in a hurry, heavens, no! This was Africa after all. No clocks except the sun. But the things Bucky had to learn, had to take in, and keep straight… Of course, he had an enhanced memory, of course he could recall conversations word-for-word perfect, but sometimes, it failed. Sometimes, he did forget things. And that meant he was defective, was broken, was less than perfect… and there was the darkness catching him by the ankle.

It wasn’t that this morning. Or at least, not exactly that.

He just… felt tired. Tired and sad and unsettled, all in a way that made him very much not want to get up. Steve must have gone outside because it was quiet now. Too quiet.

The voices were quieter, dulled, but still incessant.

The nightmare he’d had three nights ago. Butchering that bull calf for Ntando. A memory of his knife in a woman’s chest. Steve’s concerned blue eyes. The animals needing more grain. The thing he had promised to help Umkhulu with that afternoon. Clenching and unclenching his metal fist… but he wasn’t, because he didn’t have a metal arm any more.

Steve would probably worry, if Bucky stayed in bed too long.

 _Get up, lazy bones. Worrying Steve is a fine way to repay him for everything he does. I guess I should eat something too, because he will worry if I don’t._ He really didn’t feel like eating.

He was sitting up, when Steve suddenly came around the dividing wall, moving quietly. He stopped when his eyes met Bucky’s.

He smiled. “Hey. You’re awake. I already fed the girls and the chickens; thought you looked like you could sleep a little longer.” His eyes were so warm.

Bucky nodded, looked down, letting his hair fall over his face, muttered, “Thanks.”

A moment of silence, before Steve said, “I’ll get breakfast started then.”

Bucky hated the way he _felt_ Steve’s cheerfulness drop several degrees as he walked back out of the room. _Stupid, you could have at least sounded more grateful._ But the energy was lacking, and he sighed, pulled his feet up and buried his face in the blanket covering his knees.

A few long minutes of listening to his own breathing, rough even to his ears. And then he heard Steve humming in the front room, now singing as he went outside, softly, as an afterthought: “When daybreak seems so far away, reach for my hand. When hope and peace begin to fray, still I will stand…”

An ache rose in Bucky’s throat, making it hard to swallow suddenly. That voice reaching him, calling to him through the confusion of growling voices and foggy emotions.

He didn’t bother changing out of the undershirt and flannels he had worn to bed, didn’t even stop to wash his face. He just picked up the light blanket, draped it over his shoulders and padded out of the back room.

Steve was now at the table, measuring things into a pot, his back to Bucky.

Quietly Bucky stepped up behind him, reaching to wrap his arm around Steve’s waist, and resting his cheek against the back of Steve’s neck. He pressed himself against Steve, the warm, sturdy, flesh-and-bone of him. So big and strong and capable; a body to match the fierce, brave spirit and loving heart he’d always had.

Bucky could hear Steve’s heart beating steadily in the circle his arm made, a guide to Bucky own pulse.

_Tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump…_

He breathed in, out, in (a light sweat in Steve’s smell, mixed with animals and earth), out again in a long sigh of release. The clamour of his mind was fading, dropping to indistinct murmurs, hushed by the sounds of Steve’s living love.

Bucky was safe.

Steve took another minute to finish mixing his (still dry) potful of oatmeal, before he moved, slowly turning into Bucky’s hold on him. One arm lifted to wrap around Bucky’s neck, Steve’s hand curling around the empty shoulder, still covered by the blanket. His right arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist.

Bucky now buried his face in the hollow between Steve’s cheek and shoulder; he felt Steve stroking his hair, the quick press of a kiss to the side of his head, warm breath of a sigh on his neck.

He _felt_ when Steve closed his eyes.

“I’ll be right here now, to hold you when the sky falls down,” Steve half-sang under his breath. “I will always be the one that took…”

A little hitch in Steve's throat cut off the rest of the line, and Bucky tightened his grip just a little, shifting his stance to rest his chin on Steve’s shoulder, still keeping his eyes closed.

Well, he couldn’t sing, but he remembered the words. “When the rain falls,” Bucky whispered, “I won’t let go. I’ll be right here.”

They didn’t say anything more. They didn’t need to.

No, the world didn’t really change. There was still fear and heartbreak and terrible people who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. Steve was still a fugitive, and Bucky was still one-armed. There were still the wounds and the scars and the fears that whispered in the darkness.

But here in this circle of hope, of love, the darkness had no power. Steve’s heart beat against his, in the same time; his head rested against Bucky’s, and his breathing settled, relaxed. Wrapped in Steve’s warm embrace, holding him as close as he could, Bucky knew they were both smiling. Just a little.

Both saying the same thing, without a single word. _I love you._

They were both safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos+comments make my day.


End file.
